*DISCLAIMER: I am not a doctor, therapist, or health professional of any kind. I’m sharing things that I have been taught that have helped me (or not). This is my experience.

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Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Happy 25 Years to Me

Today is my 25th birthday.  I am now 25 years old.  I hadn't even thought about turning 25 until about two months ago.  It doesn't mean much really.  Your car insurance rates are known to drop.  Other than that, it's pretty much just another year.  At least, that's the way it is for me.  Another year I didn't kill myself.  Another wasted year.

I was hospitalized with this delusional guy that lied about everything.  The doc was pretty sure that he thought what he was saying was true, hence the delusional part.  I'm getting to my point.  He told me that on him 25th birthday he would get wasted, like he did on his 18th.  I kind of laughed at him and told him that getting wasted is only actually fun if you're under age and, of course, on your 21st birthday.  I'm four years past that.  Drinking doesn't even sound appetizing.  I don't want to think about how I would feel with alcohol mixed with my new meds.  I don't really want to think about anything, which is the complete opposite that happens to me when I start drinking.

I know I don't want to think about being alone on my birthday.  I was alone last year as well, snowed into my apartment where I watched movies all night.  I even found a new favorite, "The Last Time I Committed Suicide," with Keanu Reeves.  It's actually only got a very small part about suicide.  The disassociative thinking and loosely connected thoughts, generally accepted as caused by a long history of using cocaine, in the movie is intriguing for me.  Any time someone doesn't think like they are "supposed to" I find very fascinating.

So what am I doing, on this day, my birthday?  Well after a much needed, Vistaril induced nap I plan to...well I have no idea.  Perhaps I'll get the urge to clean.  My brother won't be home until late.  He mentioned my birthday briefly before leaving for work.  My Facebook page is flooded by birthday wishes from people who find it more convenient than picking up the phone.  My grandmother did call, singing me the birthday song as I picked up the phone.  At least she had the right day this year.  My mother, I'm sure, has advised everyone not to forget this year, me being just out of the hospital and all.  I did buy myself a gift, a heating pad for my back and hips that seem to be failing me these days.  With having a heating pad I can keep from taking a scalding hot shower every two hows like I had been in the hospital.

Ah, yes, my adventures in the psych ward.  I don't like to give names of people I shared the ward with, even when I make friends.  But I will try to discuss my experience there.  I have been to the hospital possibly...a million times?  Psych visits alone envelop most of those and psych ward stays are the majority of the psych visits.  While I have been to partial hospitalization programs on numerous occasions, which I always enjoy the group therapy aspect, the number of those experiences compared to those where I was admitted to the inpatient unit far surpass them.

This visit was a little under nine months from my last inpatient psychiatric stay.  That is a record for me since I was maybe 20 or 21 years old.  I can't remember really when I started overdosing every time I got my hands on a pill bottle.  I do know, though, exactly when I thought would never do it again.  It was when my brother overdosed in front of me.  And then again when my mother was hospitalized for an overdose.  When I started to wonder if my brother or my mom would die and the next time I would see them was in a casket, I realized what I had put my family through so many times.  Don't get me wrong, unlike my family members who only wanted to stop the pain temporarily, when I overdosed I did want to die, or at least stop living.  I would pray if I believed that it would help, mostly that I would get terminal cancer.  Any kind.  I still sometimes day dream about quietly passing away in my sleep.

I know, I sound suicidal, but here's the kicker:  I will not kill myself for the same reason I will not have children.  I don't want my family to suffer.  I don't want anyone to suffer.  I have always wanted to help people, and I would be going completely against that desire if I took myself out of people's lives.  Unfortunately they are so selfish that they are ok with me suffering instead of them briefly suffering my loss.  Yes, I do know that some people grieve for their entire lives and still some don't ever get over the death of a loved one.  But I happen to think that they, knowing of my wishes, would be able to cope rather well.  I also know that they obviously don't understand the extent of my suffering, or perhaps their opinion would change.

Anyway, before this hospitalization I was getting nothing out of life, sleeping for literally 30 straight hours and staying awake for at least 24 hours before sleeping again.  I spent my time playing solitaire on the computer and watching Intervention on Netflix.  Getting up from sleeping was nearly impossible, with no will or desire.  The reason I decided to go to the hospital is when I cut myself.  In my memory, I have never cut myself.  I will not give the information about how and where I cut myself to keep from giving others ideas.  I told staff at the hospital that cutting myself gave me some sort of satisfaction, but as I think back over the events, that wasn't true at all.  It made me feel like a failure and was ultimately the deciding factor in me going to the hospital.  Today as I napped I dreamt about having cut myself so badly the doctors couldn't help me.  I woke up in an anxiety attack.

I ruminate about cutting.  Every time my brother leaves or goes in his room for bed I have that thought that it was my opportunity to cut.  Fortunately I've been through a ton of CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) training, which teaches you to be very aware of your thoughts.  You start to see your triggers that cause the negative thoughts and lead to negative coping skills.  The trick is to become so aware that you can avoid the triggers.  You learn that you can teach yourself to use a positive coping skill (deep breathing, talking to a support person) instead of a negative one (cutting) when you have those thoughts.  The idea is that you can't always control your thoughts, but sometimes you can control whether you experience triggers and you can control your behavior.

Now all of that sounds fancy and great, but I will admit that it doesn't always work.  Sometimes you can't overcome your thoughts.  This is usually the circumstance when you need medication to keep you from having those kind of thoughts.  That is the main reason I take my medications, all of them, all of the time.  I have been through the feelings that I didn't need my medication and it made me too sick or fat or whatever.  I think this is a phase that every psych patient goes through and some never get out of.

I can't say I follow all of the psych doctors, nurses, and therapists advice.  If I feel like I am doing it for the right reason, I will pick up a drink or a drug.  I used to think, before I was sick, that I would never do drugs.  Then I followed every thing the doctors said:  I took my meds at the exact same time every day, got up and went to bed at the same time each day, didn't touch caffeine, alcohol, or anything not prescribed to me, and exercised.  And believe it or not, I still relapsed.  I still wound up down as dark as I could be, or as high as the sky with hallucinations and delusions rampant.  That's when I decided that I was done following rules that didn't make sense.  The rules of following every little line drawn by my psychiatrist and therapist weren't helping.  Why not have some fun?  Drink a little of this and that, shove some stuff up your nose, and pop a pill or two.  If it doesn't make things worse, why do I have to stay away from it?  I don't have a job to have to take a piss test for or have a good record for.  Plus, I can't go back to school so what do I need my brain for.  I mean really, if I go to jail who really cares?  It would suck, but to live how I want in exchange, why the hell not?

So now my brother came home, not to celebrate my birthday, but because his other plans fell through.  It makes my birthday just a little better.  I don't feel so much like shit now.  Even with him here my above thoughts are completely true.  And now I've talked to my dad (Monty) and my best friend (Nathan).  That's prolly the best part of my birthday so far.  I'm going to close now, to continue to enjoy my birthday.